Chapter TWO

TWO DAYS LATER, I’m in the Harrison Hotel, which Kate has assured me is the chicest new spot in New York. I can see how the squiggly fuchsia sofas made out of poured cement and the wobbly free-form three-legged tables pass for hip, but I wonder why the dermatologists didn’t pick a place with better lighting for their annual “FIGHT AGE!” conference. The yellow fixtures make everyone here look like fugitives from the ICU. And when did “age” become a call to arms anyway? I’ve tried to Save the Whales, Save the Earth, and Save Family Guy from being cancelled. But this is the first time I’ve rallied to save my face from the demon wrinkle.

Kate’s drawn a standing-room-only crowd for her keynote speech, and since I’m sitting uncomfortably in a backless acrylic chair, I think of offering my seat to someone older than I am. If only there were someone. The place is packed with twenty- and thirty-somethings who’ve barely graduated from Clearasil. Instead of fighting age, shouldn’t they be fighting to get into graduate school?

Kate strides to the podium to begin her talk. She’s professional and charming, and the audience hangs on her every word. One woman scribbles notes on the palm of her hand—how good can that be for your skin?—and others have brought tape recorders so they can listen to Kate’s speech again and again. Maybe they’ll replay it when they’re jogging in the park, trying to lower their cholesterol. Though I’d worry that listening to an anti-aging tape is more likely to raise their blood pressure.

For over an hour, Kate makes the case for the latest scientific breakthroughs that will eliminate brown spots and even out your skin tone. You can even give up sex—though who’d want to, Kate jokes—because the newest LED laser gives your cheeks that rosy post-coital flush. And unlike an orgasm, it lasts all day. She touts a cream that costs four hundred dollars an ounce and comes from dehydrated test-tube-cloned lizard pancreas. Or something like that. The exorbitant price and the exotic ingredients convince most of the audience they’ve found a gift from God.

During the question-and-answer period, a few women ask high-minded questions about clinical trials and FDA approval. But the main thing on most people’s minds is—what are your office hours and how long do I have to wait for an appointment? I hope nobody’s having a freckle emergency, because I happen to know that Kate’s booked for the next four months. She’s made believers of us all.

Well almost all. There’s always a naysayer in the crowd who needs to be converted.

“I think all this is a bunch of hokum,” says a fair-skinned fortyish year old woman, standing up and identifying herself as Alva. “I don’t believe in all this age-defying, age-denying hocus-pocus. You’re a doctor so you should know physics. You can’t turn back the clock unless you’re traveling at the speed of light. And even Einstein couldn’t do that.”

“That’s because Einstein didn’t have lasers,” Kate says, dismissing the Nobel Prize winner’s work as unimportant—relatively. “And trust me, lasers turn back the clock. Come on up here and let me show you a little technological whiz-bang. A miraculous resculpting facial that can give you a fabulous face-lift in five minutes.”

Maybe when it comes to beauty, even a skeptic wants to believe, because Alva hesitates for barely a moment before making her way up to the small platform in the front of the room. Kate smiles at her and turns on one of the machines she’d been describing during her lecture. Lights flash and the device emits a buzzing, sizzling sound.

“You’re welcome to sit down,” Kate tells her genially.

Alva looks at the blinking contraption—and cautiously lowers herself into the chair next to it. Kate gets busy connecting some long wires with saucer-sized electrodes to Alva’s forehead, cheeks and double chin. The crowd is suddenly very still. Is this a facial or a scene from The Executioner?

“I promise nothing really shocking’s going to happen,” Kate says, turning to the audience and giving a little wink. She smiles at her subject. “Are you ready to go ahead?”

Alva nods solemnly, and Kate flips the switch. When the lights on the machine start flashing furiously, Alva stoically grips her hands on the armrests and leans back in her seat. If electricity were pulsating through my body, I’d at the very least be worrying about the Con Ed bill.

Kate spends five minutes explaining to the audience how the electrical pulses cause muscle contractions that tighten the skin. The gentle flow of current reduces puffiness, increases circulation, and should give Alva an instant lift.

“So what do you think?” Kate asks the audience as she flips Alva’s face from side to side, checking out her work in progress. “Is it going to work? Ready to see the unveiling?”

The audience lets out a few hoots of “Yes!” and “Let’s see!” I definitely want to see, because I’m still looking at Alva, whose eyes are closed. And whether she’s fallen asleep or dead, I can’t really tell.

“Okay, then,” Kate says dramatically, her voice deepening. “The big moment.” With a flourish, she turns off the machine, removes the electrodes, and strokes her fingertips across Alva’s face, patting here and there as if molding a big lump of clay. Finally Kate nods approvingly and hands her patient a mirror.

At first Alva says nothing as she stares at her reflection. Then she breaks out into a big grin and pats her now-tauter cheeks. “My gosh, I really do look better,” she says.

“Yes, you’re beautiful!” Kate exults.

The audience is on its feet applauding. Loud cheers of “Me next!” and “Where can I get that?” fill the room. Everyone wants to be the recipient of Kate’s next bolt of beauty. The crowd starts pushing toward the stage, whooping and stomping. If Hewlett-Packard stock had inspired this much enthusiasm, Carly Fiorina would still have a job.

The women gather around and one touches Kate’s sleeve as if she were the pope. Another asks for an autograph. When we were kids Kate used to say she wanted to save the world. Who knew she’d be doing it one pimple at a time.

Thirty minutes later, the potential patients are finally out of questions and Kate’s out of business cards. She excuses herself and I follow her as we make a graceful exit.

“So what’d you think?” she asks me happily, on a high from her worshipers’ adulation.

“I feel like I should kiss your ring,” I say, laughing. “That woman really did look good.”

“And that’s just a sample. The whole process with the dermabrasion, collagen and vitamin serum takes at least a couple of hours. It costs a fortune, but for you, my dear, I’d do it for free.”

“I’ll add it to the list,” I say with a laugh. “How long do your miracles last?”

“A full twenty-four hours.”

“And after that your Cinderellas turn back into pumpkins?”

“At least they look good for the ball. Or the Oscars.”

“As long as the show doesn’t run late,” I say.

Kate laughs and links her arm through mine.

“Come on, I promised you lunch. I owe you a Harrison Hamburger for coming to my speech. Specialty of the house. The chef makes them with foie gras and caviar.”

“Caviar?” I ask. “Hasn’t anybody here ever heard of Hamburger Helper?”

“Yes, they have,” Kate says, holding the door open for me. “And that’s why they use caviar. Let me introduce you to my favorite lunch.”

But it’s not the hamburger I get to meet. As we head toward the forty-dollar sandwiches in the wildly overpriced hotel restaurant—modestly billed as The Cafeteria—Kate suddenly comes to a dead halt. She self-consciously tugs at the hem of her tight Gucci shirt. If she pulls it any harder, I’ll get to see that three-hundred-fifty-dollar La Perla bra she swears by. I follow her gaze and see a man rushing across the lobby in our direction, waving at Kate with one hand and scrolling through his Blackberry with the other. He’s wearing an expensive wheat-colored linen shirt that amazingly hasn’t wilted in the humidity. His crisp olive pants are equally wrinkle-free, and there are no creases on his face, either. Maybe he’s been resculpted. I suddenly have a brainstorm. Can Doctor Kate make over any guy so he’s the man of her dreams? If so, she might have made the biceps on this one a little bigger.

“I’m here,” he says, tucking away his Blackberry and planting a light kiss on Kate’s cheek. “Sorry I missed your speech, babe. I was buying a building on Thirty-third Street and it took longer than I thought.”

Buying a building? No wonder he’s late. Given the price of Manhattan real estate, it would probably take forever just to write all the zeros on the check.

“Let me introduce you. This is Owen Hardy,” says Kate, never taking her adoring eyes off of him. “My dear new friend, the fabulous and famous Owen Hardy.”

The very tan man in question looks at me expectantly, tapping his foot and waiting for a reaction. He’s clearly miffed when he doesn’t get one.

“Owen Hardy,” he repeats, saying it slower and more loudly. He could announce his name in American Sign Language and Koko the gorilla might get it, but I still won’t be able to place him.

Kate tries to come to my rescue. “Owen Hardy. You must see his name all over the city,” she prompts. “On buildings. H-A-R-D-Y. Hardy.”

So then it hits me. Those great big twenty-foot-high bronze letters on top of half the skyscrapers in New York. Owen Hardy is one of New York’s most prominent real estate moguls. Ads for his buildings say He Trumps Trump! Owen definitely trumps Donald in the hair department. But I wonder if he can say “You’re fired” with as much élan.

“Nice to meet you,” I say, shaking his hand.

But my audience with the fabulous and famous Owen Hardy is apparently over, because he glances at his watch and raps his finger on the dial. Is he hyperactive, or is that how he winds his fifty-thousand-dollar Patek Philippe? He grabs Kate’s elbow, clearly ready to lead her away. “Sorry to rush, but we better get going. I only have an hour for . . . lunch.”

“We were just heading into The Cafeteria,” I say innocently. “Why don’t you come along.”

“Not the kind of lunch I had in mind,” he says looking meaningfully at Kate. “I already stopped at the front desk and got us a suite.”

Oh, that kind of lunch. And why not? A rich, powerful, well-dressed man about town with his name on dozens of New York buildings. He seems like a pretty good match for my Kate—who might as well enjoy her afternoon tryst without worrying about me.

“Listen, you guys, I just remembered I have to . . . go.” Great excuse and very clever. Maybe I can get a job as Dick Cheney’s speechwriter. I look at my watch for emphasis and try rapping it. But that’s apparently not how you wind a Swatch.

Kate and I say hasty good-byes and she promises to call me later. She and her real estate mogul head to the elevators, and I go in the opposite direction, through the revolving doors and out of the hotel. If I’m buying my own hamburger, it’s not going to involve foie gras. But this must be an upscale neighborhood because I have to walk a whole two blocks before hitting a McDonald’s. At the counter, I turn virtuous and order a chicken Caesar salad. While I’m eating, I study the nutrition information and let out a gasp. A zillion calories in the Paul Newman dressing. This is as big a con as he pulled off in The Sting.

I’m taking another stab at my salad when I feel my cell phone vibrating in my pocket. I see the words i love you flashing on the screen, the message Bradford programmed into my phone months ago along with his number.

“So you’ll know how I feel every time I call,” he’d said, handing it back to me and kissing me gently on the lips.

And kissing him is still the best part of my day. Even when he comes home from work at midnight, exhausted, he still cuddles next to me before falling asleep. And he swears that once the deal he’s working on now is done, he’ll be more relaxed. Or—as he says—as relaxed as a man who was born in a three-piece suit can possibly be.

“Hi, honey,” he says now when I answer the phone. “Where are you?”

“Having lunch,” I say, wiping the last incriminating trace of salad dressing from my mouth. As if my cell phone might suddenly turn into one of those camera models.

“Someplace good?” he asks.

Here’s a dilemma. Bradford usually eats broiled fish and steamed vegetables for lunch, whipped up by his company’s executive chef and delivered to his desk on Limoges china and a silver tray. Should I tell him I’ve been eating plastic fast food with a plastic fork? Not exactly his style. But I can’t lie.

“I just became McDonald’s hundred-billionth customer,” I say. “I’m hoping I won a free apple turnover.”

“Go buy yourself one. My treat,” he says with a laugh. “Is Kate with you for your fancy lunch?”

“Nope. Turns out she had other plans.”

“So do you, if you can manage it,” he says cheerfully. “Can you meet me in an hour? I’m taking your advice and working hard to be more relaxed.”

I laugh. “What do you have in mind?”

“A little surprise.”

He tells me where to meet him and ten minutes later I’m in a cab, zipping down the FDR Drive. I look appreciatively at the cityscape, glowing in the sunshine, and suddenly hardy seems to be looming everywhere. When did that happen? Once something hits your radar screen, it seems to pop up all over. I’m pretty sure the family didn’t acquire fifty new buildings since lunchtime. Especially since Owen’s tied up at the moment.

Owen. So Kate’s got a new guy. Good. She’s the most gorgeous woman I know but it’s been a long stretch between boyfriends. If this works out maybe we can have a double wedding—since I don’t seem to be doing anything about planning one on my own. But I don’t care what Kate says, no way that fancy pastry chef Sylvia Weinstock is making us one of her famous eight-layered confections. Unless she jumps out of the wedding cake, I’m not spending the twelve hundred dollars.

Still, I’m getting ahead of myself. Owen seems interesting. But does he deserve Kate? Is he good enough? Nice enough? I need more details. I start dialing Kate’s number, but then snap my cell phone closed. Occurs to me that she might not be done with . . . lunch. And I know she wasn’t having a Caesar salad.

I arrive at Wall Street in record time, and Bradford’s waiting in front of a large, corporate-looking building. I see him before he sees me and feel my heart skip a beat. The tall athletic body, curly dark hair and sparkling green eyes get me every time. And that dimple in his right cheek—that God surely put there so he could get away with anything—makes me melt. With the rush of anticipation I still feel every time I see him, I bound over to give him a hug.

“You look great,” he says. He gives me a big kiss and flashes the dimple. Melting, part two. Will I still feel this way once we’ve been married twenty years? It’s a risk I’m willing to take.

He takes my hand and gives it a squeeze as we walk toward the elevator. What are we doing at this Wall Street enclave, anyway? Maybe it’s Take Your Fiancée to Work Day. Well, I don’t care. Whatever Bradford has in mind, I’m game.

When we reach the twenty-third floor, I’m half expecting to see rows of cubicles and computer screens, but instead the door opens into a jungle with a huge cascading waterfall, a thicket of towering elephant-eared plants and the whooshing, hooting and chirping sounds of a rain forest. If this is an office, the workers must swing through trees.

A barefoot woman in a leopard-skin miniskirt bounces toward us with miniature martini glasses filled with a brown, bark-colored liquid.

“Pomegranate cocktails!” she says cheerily. “Filled with antioxidants—protects you against cancer, and just as important, every sip makes you look younger!”

Bradford chugs his down immediately but I eye the murky potion more warily. What is this with pomegranate juice? A month ago, I’d never heard of Pom and now it’s the Fruit of the Month. Whatever happened to the purported healing powers of grapefruit, blueberries and cranberries? And given the rising cost of health care, shouldn’t we all just stick with apples, which at least keep doctors away?

The leopard-clad woman of the forest takes a gulp of the drink herself. “By the way, I’m Jane,” she says. As if I couldn’t have guessed. I look around the room for Tarzan, but he must be off getting his diptheria shot because he’s nowhere in sight.

We dutifully follow Jane into another part of the rain forest, an intimate dimly lit room with two huge lengthwise logs topped with thin foam padding.

“So is this a good surprise?” Bradford asks, taking my hand again and grinning.

“Probably—if I knew what we were doing here,” I say, laughing.

“We’re in Shangri-La,” he says, kissing me as Jane discreetly disappears. “Our chance to relax.”

Relax, huh? If we’re here for our own nooner, I would have picked the Ritz Carlton. At least the minibar has some unhealthy drinks in it. And I’d like something larger than those twin logs. Not to mention softer.

The luscious Jane comes back, followed by a heavyset gray-haired woman who looks like her job in the jungle might be leading guerrilla warfare.

“Couple’s massage,” Bradford whispers, coming over and gently unzipping my skirt.

“Do you need robes?” Jane asks perkily.

“No, it’s warm in here,” says Bradford, unbuttoning his Brooks Brothers shirt and strolling over to a log massage table. He’s getting into that ol’ relaxed spirit faster than I would have imagined, and seeing Jane eye him appreciatively, I’m thinking that uptight has its upside, after all.

Jane positions herself by Bradford’s side. “I’ll take him, you take her,” Jane announces to her colleague, Olga, who’s old enough to be her grandmother.

Feeling not quite so blithe as Bradford, I take my place on the other massage table. From my perch, I see the comely Jane lining up small bottles of aromatic oils for Bradford to choose from.

“Mmmm,” Bradford sighs blissfully as Jane wafts one sensuous scent in front of him. “That’s heaven.”

“We’re just starting,” she coos, leaning across him to dab a droplet of another fragrant oil on his wrist. “Do you prefer this one?”

What I’d prefer is for Jane to be a little less attentive. But I’m deciding which of the warm oils I’ll choose for myself when a dollop of cold, stinging lotion lands square on my back.

“Ouch,” I say. “What are you doing?”

“A deep tissue orthopedic myofascial release massage,” declares the muscular Olga. “Not that wimpy touchy-feely treatment that Jane gives. You’re lucky you got me.”

And I’m feeling oh-so-lucky. Another squirt of cold lotion, and then she begins pounding my back as if she were trying to tenderize a too-tough side of beef.

“Could you go a little easier there?” I ask.

“You’ll get used to it,” Olga says, grinding her elbows into my back and pummeling harder.

The tweet-tweet-tweeting on the background tape that’s meant to be calm-calm-calming is definitely not-not-not. Still it’s not nearly as annoying as the other noise that’s filling the room—the blissed-out moans of my lover being satisfied by a woman. A woman who’s not me.

“Honey, you okay?” I call over to him.

“Mmmm. Mmm-hmmm,” he replies, apparently too ecstatic to articulate an actual word.

Great. My lover has reached the Seventh Level of Happiness and I’m going ten rounds with Evander Holyfield’s mother.

And she won’t let up. “Ugh, Ugh. Ugh!” I pant in pain.

Meanwhile, Bradford’s sighing happily. “Mmmm-mmmm-mmmm,” he murmurs.

“Urgh. Urgh. Urgh,” I wheeze, raising the decibel level. Olga won’t quit.

“Mmmm-mmmm-mmmm,” Bradford sings back contentedly under Jane’s gentle hand.

“UGH. URGH. AARGH,” I yelp, hitting a louder pitch with each punch.

Finally, Bradford realizes that our mating call is a little off-key.

“What’s going on over there?” he asks, raising his head to look over at me. “Everything all right?”

“No. Not all right. This hurts,” I say petulantly. I sit up and turn to the mighty masseuse. “Sorry, but I think I’m done. Appreciate your efforts.”

“Lie back down,” Olga barks, pushing me back toward the table. “You can’t leave with half the toxins still trapped in your body.”

“Yes she can,” Bradford says, marching over with the sheet wrapped around his waist. “If Sara says it’s enough, it’s enough.”

That’s nice. The hero coming to my rescue. I’d almost forgotten how lovely the whole white knight thing can be.

But Olga’s not giving in that easily. “I can’t stop now,” she says, firmly positioning her hands back on my shoulders.

Bradford gives Olga an icy stare. “We’re done. You’re done. Please leave now,” he says quietly. But his tone leaves no room for doubt.

“Fine, I’ll go,” Olga says haughtily. She turns on her orthopedic heel to stomp out of the room. “But don’t come back complaining that all your free radicals haven’t been freed.”

I’m not worried. The only free radicals I complain about are the ones who tie up traffic at the World Economic Forum every year.

“You can leave, too, Jane,” Bradford says in a softer tone.

“You sure?” Jane purrs seductively. “I like to finish what I started.”

“No, I’m done,” Bradford says. “Thanks. But we’d appreciate the use of the room for a few more minutes.”

Once Jane’s gone, Bradford wraps his arms around me and lets the sheet at his waist fall to the floor.

“Sorry that didn’t work out as well as I’d hoped. Looks like I still owe you a massage,” he says, sweetly kissing my ear. He guides me back to the table and begins caressing my shoulders.

“Would you like the warm patchouli oil?” he asks, rubbing a few drops between his hands.

“Whatever you suggest,” I say, suddenly more in the mood.

He slowly moves his hands from my shoulders and slides them around my waist. Drawing his own body closer, he begins sensuously caressing my back.

“Now this is the kind of massage I like,” I say. I close my eyes and leave myself entirely in his hands. Which is where I should have been in the first place.

“Aaaaah,” I say, letting out a long, luxurious sigh. I turn and wrap my body around his, feeling his muscular thighs pressed against mine.

“Aaaaah,” he sighs happily. “Aaaah.”

The mating call is back in sync. And “aaah” trumps “mmm” anytime.

 

The next morning, I put Dylan on the bus for day camp, checking his backpack for the requisite towel, two bathing suits, change of shorts, suntan lotion, sunburn cream (in case the counselor forgets to apply the lotion), granola bar (in case he doesn’t like what they serve for lunch), tennis racket, baseball cap, baseball glove and goggles. Incredibly, we’ve gone through only four pairs of goggles and it’s already the last week of camp. Dylan must be getting older. But not that old. As the bus pulls up, I’m still allowed to give him a big hug good-bye in full view of his buddies.

I want to make a special dinner for Bradford tonight to thank him for the massage. My first impulse is to go in to the city and head down to the friendly Italian butcher at my old West Village neighborhood. But no, I’m a suburbanite now, so I climb into our Volvo SUV. Being from Manhattan, it’s my very first car, and I still consider driving an extreme sport. ESPN isn’t covering the event today because I’m only heading over to our local Gourmet Meat Designs. A whole different competitive sport. At least I’m properly attired for shopping there—although where else in the world do you have to dress up to buy a chicken? Even free range.

Still, the little storefront is packed, and given how the man behind the counter ignores me, maybe my clothing’s not up to the job after all. Next time, high heels. Finally, he deigns to look at me, and I quickly ask, “How much veal do I need for three people?”

Without bothering to answer, he begins slicing and quickly hands me the wrapped package—clearly ready to help someone with larger ambitions. I miss my old butcher. At least his apron wasn’t designed by Gucci.

I stop by the local fancy carb emporium S.U.G.A.R. to pick up a D.E.S.S.E.R.T. I look at the Sacher torte, so small that Dylan would probably polish it off before dinner. For thirty-six dollars, I’d rather have it mounted and hung on the wall. Maybe cookies, then. Although at five dollars apiece, one late-night snack attack and I could bankrupt even Bradford.

A couple more errands and I head back with lots of packages and an empty wallet. Given what the Gristedes up here charges for Ultra Charmin, it better be ultra-ultra. No telling what the local post office charges for thirty-seven-cent stamps.

When I open the door to the house I’m hit by an icy cold blast of air. I shiver and check the air conditioner thermostat, which is set at a frosty fifty-eight.

“Consuela?” I call out, trying to figure out what’s going on.

Our housekeeper trudges out of the kitchen, wearing a parka and wool mittens. Bradford’s black lab Pal comes trailing dutifully behind her, dressed in a royal blue doggie sweater. I wouldn’t say Pal is spoiled, but he does have a dog walker who comes in three times a day. When he gained two pounds, she insisted on taking him to the gym and working him out on the treadmill, but we drew the line at putting him on Atkins. The other day, she reprimanded me for taking Pal along on my morning bike ride.

“Now he’s too tired for a proper walk,” she chided. “What will the other dogs say?”

I wanted to tell her they probably wouldn’t say a single word. And if they did, she should stop walking them and start booking them on David Letterman.

“Miss Berni is here again,” Consuela says now, shaking her head and pointing toward the living room. “Those twins better get born soon or we’re all going to freeze to death.”

Berni has assumed her usual position on the Betsy Ross couch, and she’s flipping through a Victoria’s Secret catalogue.

“I stopped getting these at my house,” she says. “Even the mailman can’t imagine that I’ll ever wear a teddy again.”

“Oh come on, even pregnant you’re still hot,” I say.

“You have no idea how hot,” Berni groans, now using the catalogue as a fan. “How did I let my husband convince me to move to New York in the summer before the house was finished and with no air-conditioning? He gave me some song and dance about sea breezes. What did I think? We were moving to Bali?”

I laugh and wrap a blanket around my shoulders.

“Thank God for you and your central air-conditioning,” Berni continues. “My internal temperature’s at a hundred and ten, but we can’t even put a temporary window unit in the bedroom. The community board says it’ll destroy the integrity of Hadley Farms. Oh please. All anybody cares about around here is how things look from the outside. I didn’t have to leave L.A. for that. Doesn’t anybody care about the inner me?”

“Sure they do. Your husband and your nutritionist,” I say. “Not to mention your obstetrician.” I pull the blanket a little tighter around me. Is it my imagination, or is it so cold in here that I can see my breath?

“Oh, shit,” says Berni. She brings her hand quickly to her mouth. “I didn’t mean to say ‘shit.’ I meant ‘damn.’ I promised myself I wouldn’t swear in front of the twins.” She pats her stomach and looks down remorsefully. “Sorry, guys.”

“What’s wrong?” I ask, less concerned about her language than her going into labor. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, but I forgot. My client Kirk. Or former client. I said I’d meet him at a photo shoot today in Manhattan to lend my support. He’s going to be one of People magazine’s Fifty Sexy Young Stars. Do you want to come?”

“Which one is he?” I ask, trying to click through the clients Berni has told me about.

“The hunk I discovered working in a Santa Monica car wash. He had his shirt on but I could still recognize his talent. Now he plays Dr. Lance Lovett on that medical soap opera. You know the one—Days of Our Knives.”

“Then let’s go,” I say, jumping up. Even a sweaty car on Metro North would be more appealing than this Arctic igloo. The place feels like the set for The Day After Tomorrow. Now that I know global warming makes the world colder, I might stop using hair spray.

Consuela comes in with the hood on her parka pulled up tightly now, carrying a silver tray. “Hot chocolate?” she offers, holding out steaming mugs.

“Thanks, Consuela, but we’re going out,” I say, trying to stifle a laugh.

“Right,” says Berni. She gets up and looks longingly one more time at the Victoria’s Secret catalogue before tossing it into the wastebasket.

Berni and I hop on the train and arrive at Grand Central Station in the advertised thirty-eight minutes. We head down to a huge studio loft by the Hudson River, where dozens of photo assistants, lighting assistants, and cappuccino-fetching assistants are all busily scurrying around. At the center of the activity is a beautiful dark-skinned girl with multicolored hair wearing a tight white sparkly dress.

“That’s Eve,” Berni whispers to me. “Very happening rap star.”

But what’s happening with Berni right now is that she’s already exhausted and goes across the studio to sit down. I stay mesmerized where I am, watching in fascination as Eve poses in the light box, three feet from the photographer. Her skin glistens and a makeup artist rushes to dust her face with powder and polish her arms and shoulders.

“Is this the place for the Sexy Stars?” someone behind me asks in a deep, masculine voice.

I turn around, and find myself looking into a chiseled face framed by blond, spiky hair. “Apparently,” I say. The hunky guy in front of me is broad shouldered and muscular. When he gives a little smile, his liquid-blue eyes twinkle.

“Are you one of the stars in the photo shoot, too?” he asks, flashing a bright grin.

“I’m . . . I’m . . .” apparently I’m stuttering. “I’m just a friend,” I say, collecting myself.

“Sorry, I thought you were one of the sexy stars,” he says.

The man must have a PhD. from the George Clooney Charm School. But I find myself smiling.

Just then he spots Berni, who’s sprawled in a canvas-backed director’s chair.

“You’re here!” he says, rushing over and throwing his arms around her. “And you look fabulous!”

Berni waves her arm dismissively but still looks pleased. What is it about a handsome guy slinging a compliment? Even fake flattery is a better mood enhancer than two Zolofts and an Entenmann’s coffee cake.

I come over to join Berni and she quickly introduces me to Kirk.

“We’ve already met,” Kirk says, smiling and turning to me. “Sorry if I’m a little sweaty. I didn’t get to the gym today so I power-walked over from the set of Knives.”

Power walking usually means going fast—but with a soap star, it could mean he got to walk with the director.

Kirk’s supposed to be next up with the photographer. The frazzled wardrobe mistress—dressed in a silver Mylar micromini layered over tutti-frutti tights—comes over and, completely ignoring Berni and me, grabs him by the arm.

“We have to get you into some clothes,” she says hurriedly, pointing across the studio to the five wardrobe racks she has ready for him.

“Aren’t these clothes?” Kirk asks, holding out his faded black T-shirt. “My favorite jeans. I’ll just wear these.”

Seems like he’s a regular guy with no posse and no pretentions. I like that. But the wardrobe mistress doesn’t.

“No jeans. No T-shirts. No black,” she says, ruling out just about everything that Kirk probably owns. “We have to make you look sexy.”

That shouldn’t be hard. Is the woman blind? Nature already took care of it. Still, Kirk amiably agrees to follow the wardrobe mistress to her racks across the room. Though given the way she’s dressed, I wouldn’t let her outfit a Barbie.

“You go, too,” Berni tells me, sighing. “I can’t move. Make sure he looks good.”

Since there’s no dressing room, Kirk strips down to his gray spandex Calvin Kleins and begins flicking through the clothes. While he’s checking out Armani, Versace and some pretty cool Hugo Boss, I’m checking out his well-cut abs. Much better than Patrolman Pete’s. I sure have seen a lot of nearly naked men lately. And I don’t even watch Bravo.

Kirk holds up a buttery-soft brown leather jacket. “Do you like this one?” he asks, slipping it on over his bare chest and skivvies.

“It’s great!” I say, thinking it looks particularly good without pants. Kirk could single-handedly destroy Seventh Avenue since the less he wears, the better he looks.

Berni suddenly appears behind me and clutches my arm.

“Water,” she says in a hoarse whisper.

I turn around and notice beads of perspiration dripping down her forehead. “Let me get you some,” I say. “There’s some Pellegrino over there.”

“Not that kind of water,” Berni says, looking like she might pass out.

“I don’t like Pellegrino either. Too many bubbles,” Kirk says, digging into his backpack for his private stash. “Here—try my Vitamin Water.”

“I don’t need vitamins. I need an ambulance,” Berni moans. “Water. My water broke.”

“Oh my god!” I scream. I look around wildly, trying to remember what I’m supposed to do. Call the doctor? Call her husband? Call Pratesi to see if the damn layette ever came in? But the nearly naked Kirk is quickly at her side.

“Let me help. I’m not a doctor, but I play one on TV,” he says calmly, putting his arm around Berni and ushering us all toward the exit.

“Are you going to deliver her right here?” I ask, ever more panicked.

“No, I’m going to deliver her to the hospital,” Kirk says with a smile. He pulls on a pair of pants, exchanges a few quick words with one of the photo assistants and by the time we get downstairs, a cab is waiting. We all pile into the backseat.

“Let’s time those contractions,” Kirk says as the driver speeds off, diving through a few potholes and scoring a near miss with a pedestrian. “How far apart are they?”

That mellifluous voice in a doctor—or in this case, an actor—is a real plus. With one of Kirk’s big, strong arms around her Berni seems to relax. When the contractions come, he talks her through the breathe-in breathe-out that everyone forgets in the crunch. In between, he has her laughing and licking a lollipop that he has with him. “Part of the actor’s emergency kit,” he explains. “Keeps your lips moist at auditions.”

By the time we get to the hospital, Berni’s forgotten that Kirk’s medical license came with his SAG card, and she’s more than a little disappointed when the nurse wants to call in a certified MD.

“Kirk’s doing fine,” Berni argues. “Six months on that soap and he can deal with anything. Can the obstetricians around here do a heart transplant? Separate Siamese twins? Has any one of them ever brought a cadaver in the morgue back to life? Because Kirk has.”

Berni’s so passionate, she’s even got me convinced that Kirk’s the man for the job. But the nurse decides otherwise. She gives Kirk a lascivious glance, but in the end professionalism gets the better of her. Either that, or his bare chest under the leather jacket is undercutting Kirk’s authority.

“It’s okay, Berni,” Kirk says, giving her a kiss on the cheek as the nurse prepares to wheel her to the maternity floor. “Delivering twins is easy. So easy, we never do less than triplets on the show.”

“The show,” calls out Berni, suddenly remembering that she has at least five minutes left as an agent before she turns into a full-time mom. “As soon as I’m finished here, I’ll call the producer. From now on, you don’t deliver anything less than quints.”